


Hérairon

by Brekkable



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brekkable/pseuds/Brekkable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A month after the Ring fell into the Fires of Orodruin, a lone figure was discovered outside the walls of Minas Tirith. Wounded and unconscious, the unknown man was brought into the halls of healing. Now he is awake, though stricken mute, and his story begins to unfold.</p>
<p>This is the story of Culdalcár.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hérairon I

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story, Hérairon, loosely translates (very loosely) from the Quenya as Lord Copper-Top. Just my odd sense of humor peeking through a bit.
> 
> My Disclaimer:  
> i. I do not own any part of Tolkien’s work; I merely play with it, and get absolutely no money out of it. 
> 
> ii. Any original characters are my own, however; if you would like to borrow them, please ask first.
> 
> iii. This is fanfiction; I make no claim to write according to canon, but I do to make my story as accurate as possible without becoming obsessive. If I write something contrary to canon that is not essential to the story, please feel free to correct me; however, if I diverge from canon in order to make the story work, please do not go ‘Canon Nazi’ on me.
> 
> iv. My translations into the various elvish languages are taken from online dictionaries. While I have done some small amount of research as regards grammar and syntax, I am no linguist, and am largely unfamiliar with the languages. To those of you who have devoted more time and energy to those languages: I will eagerly accept corrections! All translations from the elvish into English will appear at the bottom of each chapter.

            When the elves arrived in Minas Tirith, all the men, women, and children came out to observe the procession. In the houses of healing, patients and healers alike craned their necks to see from balconies and windows, until the Head Healer gathered himself together and began to chide those around him. Patients limped, shuffled, or dragged themselves back to their beds, and healers began bustling about once again, settling the injured back down. All the wards were alive with gossip about the ethereal beings and the relationship which Gondor’s new king had with them. In one room alone, a man weakly settled himself back into his bed, mind whirling tiredly with the possibilities for the future.

His name was Culdalcár, a kinsman and loved one of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth. Culdalcár was Imrahil’s uncle, adopted brother to Angelimír, Imrahil’s grandfather; his birth-parents were unknown to all but Angelimír himself. Angelimír’s father Aglahad had welcomed the young man into his home, saying only that the man was a kinsman, dear to him and of the line of the princes of Dol Amroth. Culdalcár named his home there by the sea in Dol Amroth, and was gifted with all that befitted a son of Numenorean descent. Prince Aglahad perished, and his son Prince Angelimír died some sixty years after as an old man, leaving Dol Amroth to the care of Adrahil, the newest Prince of Dol Amroth. Not long after, Culdalcár left without notice, to no-one knew where, and for what reason no-one knew.

In the forty and four years since, he had appeared to his kinsmen many times, enough that his cousins and nieces and nephews, and their children and grandchildren knew him by sight. He must have indeed had the blessing of Numenorean blood in abundance, for his hair never lost the red-gold luster of his youth, and his skin remained fair and unblemished by sun, wind, or age. He was tall as the elves, and had much of their look in his piercing silver eyes and lithe, nimble form. Indeed, he was a master swordsman and a skilled archer, unrivalled with the bow and arrow in Gondor, even among the Rangers of Ithilien, with whom he joined every few years. He was a mighty warrior, but known as such only by a few, all of whom were warriors as well.

Culdalcár had not fought on the Fields of Pellinor. He had not been wounded in the battle at the Gates of Mordor, nor had he and his injuries been discovered until two fortnights after that battle. He had been discovered by guards at the gates of Minas Tirith, without a horse, pack, or any other sign of having traveled there; he was unconscious, and remained so. Now, near two weeks later, the healers were still concerned by his many knife wounds, which bore the marks of a poison unknown to them. He had awakened only two days before, but had spoken nothing to any man due to an almost-healed slice across his throat, the obvious work of an animal’s claw. The healers hoped that perhaps the newly named King Ellasar, he with ‘the hands of a healer’, or one of the elven healers might lend their touch and help the unknown man to speak again. Had they asked the man directly, perhaps, they would have understood that such help was, in fact, unneeded.

Culdalcár closed his eyes, listening to the clamor of gossip and celebration within the wards and out in the city. He smiled slightly, comforted yet somewhat unsettled by the sound of human voices in pleasant conversation. His fingers traced the scab across his throat, eyes clouding over in thought. His other wounds ached in sympathy to the memory; he closed his eyes as he laid back and tried to relax. He needed to concentrate on healing…

“A most dreadful and unknown poison,” a quiet voice tugged Culdalcár from his afternoon sleep the next day; he struggled to regain his senses. “We thought all was lost; more than once, the man ceased breathing for several moments. I have never seen such a will to live in any warrior. As a healer, I have seen many wounds and illnesses, but I have never seen anyone with so many and varied injuries of deathly degree heal so very determinedly. But the wound to the throat is beyond our knowledge; it was half-healed when the man was brought to us, and I have little experience with such damage. Were any average warrior to be caught with such a blow as made this wound, he were nigh headless!”

Culdalcár’s eyes crept open. The first thing he was able to discern in the waning afternoon light was the healer in his blue robe, then two figures in simple, soft gray robes.

“I had hoped that you might provide some healing for his throat,” the healer continued, not seeing that the patient was following their conversation. “If he can one day speak…”

“I will do my best,” a smooth, melodic baritone spoke. Culdalcár’s eyes drifted closed half-way as he inhaled deeply in reaction to the sound. “Perhaps I may greet the warrior who conquered such a beast as would inflict so great a wound?” The patient’s eyes slowly opened to meet the newcomer’s.

Culdalcár stared frankly at the elves before him. Both were tall in the way of elves, broad of shoulder and narrow in the waist, with keen gray eyes and dark, shining hair. The light of the stars shone from their bodies, subdued somewhat by the fading sunlight. The two elves were obviously of close kinship, likely father and son, for they shared many identical features.

“Greetings,” the elder elf inclined his head slightly, eyes taking in every feature of the man before them on the bed. Culdalcár returned the nod carefully, fingers going up to his throat. “I am Elrond Half-Elven; this is my son Elladan. We are healers,” the two elves introduced themselves. “May we examine your injuries?” Culdalcár made a small gesture of permission. The two elves bent over his body, unwinding bandages to view the injured flesh on his body.

“These are not the marks of battle,” Elrond stood upright, eyes turning to the healer for explanation. The healer nodded.

“They are not, milord,” he agreed, his expression grim. “This man was not involved in any known battle, nor have there been any known occasions for a skirmish with knives or daggers within all of Gondor.” All eyes turned to the man on the bed, who curled one hand around the opposite wrist to indicate binding, then traced the deliberate slicing motion of a carefully wielded blade. _Torture_ , the man mouthed once, then closed his mouth and went still, observing their reactions.

“A dagger dipped in some poison,” Elrond suggested, his tone betraying none of his inner disturbance, and was answered by a small nod. “And the wound to your throat?” A finger traced out the word for wolf, first in the Common Tongue, then in Sindarin. _Draug rider_ , he spelled out in Sindarin, then the words for _two_ and _moon_. “You were wounded two months ago?” A nod. “By a draug and its rider?” Culdalcár tilted his head slightly and pointed to his upper left arm at a deeper, older stab wound that had not been poisoned. “The draug clawed your throat and the rider stabbed you,” the elf murmured as he examined the proffered limb. “The knife wounds are more recent.” Culdalcár examined the elf, then grimaced and looked away. _Mordor_ , he traced on the bed, then _Minas Morgul_ and _ring wraith_.

“By the Valar!” the younger elf breathed. At the healer’s questioning look, he briefly explained: “He speaks of the Dark Tower in Mordor, and of the ring wraiths.”

“The shallower wounds show signs of a serrated edge,” his father continued his examination as though no one had spoken. “These wounds are six weeks, no more than seven weeks old.” Culdalcár flinched slightly as a gentle finger traced a wound across the tender flesh of his left palm. “I can see the obvious effects of the poison, but the wounds seem to be healing now that it has been removed.” The healer made a satisfied sound. “Are you able to move onto your side?” Elrond questioned; the man in the bed did so, moving slowly and delicately. “The wounds are centered largely on his torso and back?”

“Yes,” the healer nodded, moving closer to the bed. Culdalcár closed his eyes and simply let the healers do their work as they were accustomed to. He moved when it was requested of him, and gave gestured responses when he was asked questions. Once it had been determined that the poisoned wounds were no longer of any serious danger to him, the attention turned to his throat.

Fingers probed gently, and Culdalcár’s eyes flew open to meet those of the elf lord. “You can feel that?” He nodded, shivering slightly at the feeling of cool healing power sinking into and through the injured flesh of his throat. “You have elven ancestry.” It was not a question, especially after his use of Sindarin words. He blinked once for yes. “You are of Numenorean descent?” Culdalcár considered carefully, then conceded.

“Are you of Lord Imrahil’s kinsmen?” the healer asked in surprise. Culdalcár’s eyes flew to the blue-robed man, a smile growing across his face in answer. “I will send word immediately,” the healer assured the injured man, and bustled off to do just that. Once the healer had left the room, Culdalcár turned his attention back to the elves.

The healing flow continued from Elrond’s hands into the wounded flesh. Culdalcár reached up with one unmarred hand to cover that of the elf. Wordless gratitude flew from patient to healer, along with a sudden flow of power. The two regarded each other wordlessly as power passed from one to the other and back again, until both fairly glowed with an intense light. Slowly, the light died down, and Elrond gently removed his hands to inspect the wound once again.

“You have the power of one of the High Born,” he observed keenly. “The light of the elves burns strongly within you.” Culdalcár merely regarded him with a blank expression, fingers lightly tracing the faint white outline of the healed wound. Silence filled the room for several minutes, but was broken by the sound of rushing feet.

Several people entered the room, eyes instantly falling on the figure in the bed. “ _Culdalcár_!” came the cry from several lips at once. Culdalcár smiled widely, joy filling his gray eyes as he stretched out his good arm in greeting. Several hands grasped to take his at once, and questions were peppered at him until one voice called for order.

Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, looked down on his kinsman in concern. He had known the man on the bed from childhood, and had never seen Culdalcár looking so ill. “I think, perhaps, that the healers would not appreciate such a noise as all your fervor has produced,” he admonished the other members of his family mildly. Beside him, his nephew Faramir smothered a bit of a smile at the instantaneous reaction that garnered from his kin.

“Forgive us, Father,” Imrahil’s son Elphir spoke up. “And may you forgive us, as well, my lords and healers,” he nodded to the elves and the healers who stood by. “I fear that our relief had overwhelmed us before discretion could take hold.” Eyes moved again to the man on the bed, who was watching the events with a smile of amusement.

“Well, you _have_ managed to cause some disquiet,” Imrahil spoke fondly as he moved to stand by the bed, hand reaching to take Culdalcár’s. Culdalcár, for his part, gave an expression that managed to convey his approval of the disquiet, and all the family members gathered around laughed quietly. “The healer said that you are unable to speak?”

Elrond spoke up. “It is likely that he will be able to speak clearly and without pain within a fortnight. The flesh is mostly healed, but his throat is raw and tender. You might,” he directly addressed Culdalcár, “Begin to speak on the morrow. It will be painful, and you will be required to keep your throat moist. Perhaps a tincture of _athelas_ …”

“Ah, the kingsfoil,” the healer returned brightly, “Of course! I thank you for your assistance, milord! Truly, the healing magic of the elves is wondrous!”

“There were other patients in need of my attention?” the elven lord asked mildly, easily derailing the healer’s awe-filled rant. The healer bowed to those within the room before attempting to lead Elrond out. A hand caught the gray robe before the half-elf could depart. Elrond looked down into Culdalcár’s intent eyes, and a wordless exchange drifted between them. With a final admonition and farewell, the two elves and healer left the room.

The attention of Imrahil and his family turned back to Culdalcár, who merely smiled at them and gestured for the water pitcher nearby. After receiving the requested drink, he opened his mouth and managed to issue several small noises before succumbing to the need for sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter explains Culdalcár's background, and some of his injuries.
> 
> I apologize in advance for any gross canonical errors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The terms Perrianath and Halfling are the same. I'm sorry, Bilbo. I know you're not 'half' of anything. Except literally, in the height department.

When Culdalcár next opened his eyes, it was early morning, and the sun was just peaking over the horizon. For an hour or so, the man simply laid there, taking stock of his body’s wellbeing. The slice to his throat was almost entirely healed. It was so close to being completely healed, in fact, that Culdalcár focused in on it and managed to repair the last of the damage. The effort left him weary, but jubilant; his throat would be sore and tender for several days, but he could speak again!

When the healer arrived to check on Culdalcár in the morning, he was met with a wide grin and a cheerful greeting: “Good morrow to you, healer!” His voice was somewhat hoarse, but that was quickly disappearing; his throat was certainly tender, but the discomfort was easily ignored by the warrior.

The healer was eagerly examining the miraculously healed throat when Imrahil and what seemed to be his entire family arrived. More than a dozen lords and ladies did they number, from the elderly (who appeared to be in the prime of life) to the young men and women who appeared scarcely younger than their grandparents.

For the next hour or so, Culdalcár spoke more and more, asking after the health and well-being of the entire family; on his part, he answered little about where he had been injured or where he had been or what he had been doing for the past years. All noted how he avoided answering such questions, and turned the conversation to lighter subjects. When Culdalcár grew noticeably wearied, Imrahil ordered out all but himself and Faramir, now Steward of Gondor. When the three men were alone, Imrahil regarded Culdalcár sternly.

“Uncle,” the Prince of Dol Amroth began solemnly, “You have put off questions about your wounds for long enough. Do you not think it is time to share your burden? The war is done; Sauron and the evils of his forces are conquered and hunted to the far reaches of the East. There are no spies which will design upon your life and the lives of your loved ones.” The two men regarded one another wordlessly for a long moment. “The healer told me your wounds were designed to hurt, not to kill. He spoke of poison, and signs of the Black Breath, and of how you spoke of Mordor and the Black Tower. Tell me, uncle, tell me the truth: Were you captured and taken to Minas Morgul to be tortured?”

Culdalcár turned his gaze to the wall, rubbing the wound at his throat out of habit. He little desired to answer, but knew that the story would come to light even if he refused to be the one to reveal it.

“I allowed myself to be taken,” he spoke hoarsely, his tone so quiet that his kinsmen had to strain to hear. “The Perrianath were there, or would be, and I was needed.”

“The halflings?” Imrahil asked, puzzled. “The Ringbearer and his companion were held captive at Minas Morgul?” His cousin nodded.

“The Ringbearer had been captured by the Spider in the pass just beyond the mountains of Mordor; his companion slew the Spider, but was forced to stand by and watch as the Ringbearer was taken by orcs to the Black Tower.” The two other men breathed a silent gasp of horror; though they knew that the Ringbearer and his companion had succeeded in their task, still they thought with dread of the suffering which had accompanied the efforts.

“Samwise Gamgee,” Culdalcár spoke with a fond tone in his voice. “That is the name of the brave halfling who saved the whole of Middle Earth on that particular occasion.”

“He was brave, indeed,” a deep voice sounded from the doorway. All three men looked up to see a white-robed figure in the doorway. “Forgive me,” Gandalf the White said, looking not at all apologetic, “I was given to understand that there was one who had been held captive in Minas Morgul, and found that my curiosity was sorely piqued.” His eyes twinkled down at the man on the bed. Culdalcár, on his part, did nothing to hide his amusement.

“You are welcome, friend, to listen.”

“Ah, and I do thank you for it,” the tall figure moved quickly into the room and settled into the only chair. “I have found it to be much easier to hear tales of heroism and bravery if I have made myself comfortable!” The old man looked sharply at Imrahil when that prince huffed under his breath about old men. “What’s that, then, lad?” The Prince of Dol Amroth muttered a short apology, and both men exchanged small grins, having been acquaintances for many long years.

“If you are both quite finished exchanging pleasantries,” Culdalcár chuckled, then sobered. “Samwise Gamgee, I had said.” His eyes drifted shut.

“Minas Morgul…it is beyond description. The senses are inundated by the darkness of night, and the mind and spirit are choked by the thickness of the Black Breath. The presence of the Witch King was still strong, though he himself was not present; he had been called to battle, and six of his lieutenants with him. There still remained two of those lesser wraiths, many orcs, and uruk-hai, and trolls, and beasts which cannot be described.” His eyes opened and stared into the distance, not seeing the men before him.

“I was the only living prisoner, and the focus of all their attention. They fought for the right to torture me; I heard the death screams of many orcs and uruk-hai before I was brought to the cell where I was kept. I was there for only a day and a night before another prisoner was cast in beside me: a Perrianath, bound in spider silk and orc ropes, delirious with the great Spider’s venom.” He looked to Gandalf, eyes dark and grim. “I could but watch as orcs clawed at him, attempting to find something in his clothes; they found nothing.”

“Again, there were fights over who would have the privilege of torturing the newest prisoner; it was dreadful to hear, and I fear that it only furthered the Perrianath’s poisoned dreams. I was not bound; there was little reason to bind me, for I had no strength, and the blades had carried poison which would have had me unconscious within the hour, had I attempted to flee.” He paused to take a drink of water.

“In the night, after the fights had ended and the beasts had retired to eat the flesh of those who had perished in the fights…then, I moved beside the Perrianath, and lent what healing I could.” Culdalcár laughed, his tone empty and bitter. “I could afford little of my strength, but I gave him all I had.” His gray eyes moved to Imrahil. “All the grace which is afforded me by my birth, by my heritage, by the gift given to me by my father Rofeth; all of it, I gave to the Ringbearer.

“For centuries, I have lived alone in the wilderness between Gondor and Mordor; for centuries, I have fought against Sauron’s forces; but, that was not my purpose for being there. It has been my gift to know that, one day, I would give my life in protection of someone important; I knew that it would be in Mordor, and I knew that I would suffer.” Imrahil was speechless; Culdalcár smiled. “For as long as I am able to remember, I have seen where I was to go, who I was to save; when I rode forth from Dol Amroth that very first time as a young man, as a child, it was to battle. I had seen it, and I knew that I could not turn from it. In the centuries since, I have known with increasing surety that I had one life which I must save at all costs.

“That life belonged to the tiny figure in the dark cell in Minas Morgul. I gave the Perrianath all my grace, all my life – for he was too important to die there, though I did not then know why. After, I lay beside him, dying; with my last breath, I blessed him, and with my last thought, I wished him well on his journey. Then, night faded around me, and I went to my death.”

**_*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *_ **

The faces of Imrahil and Faramir were darkened with confusion. Culdalcár laughed merrily at their expressions. Gandalf watched the family with a shake of his head and a twinkle in his eye.

“When I awoke, it was day; not the day that we think of with the sun and brightness of sky, but a dark blackness which covered the sky and seemed to fall in upon your soul. That was the day in Mordor, distinguished from the night by little more than the shadows which fell across the broken land.

“I was not far from the Black Tower; it was still in sight. I was alive, despite all my expectations. I had died – I could feel that, and had known as it happened that it would – but I was yet alive. By some working of the Valar, the Perrianath Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee had taken my body and breathed life back into it.

“Frodo told me of how Samwise had braved the Minas Morgul itself for his sake, how he had rousted all the villainous creatures and brought them to fight one another – not that it was a very difficult task, to be sure, but a brave one! When Samwise reached us, Frodo was loathe to leave my body behind, and upon hearing what I had done for the Ringbearer, the companion was as well.

“I was told that they breathed breath into my lungs,” Culdalcár told his audience, his tone one of amazement and satisfaction. “The Valar had seemingly mandated that my soul remain here on Arda, and the Perrianath were the instruments to ensure that it was so. But though I was living, my body was still weak from torture and poison, and the grace which I had been afforded from birth was fragile, and easily broken.

“We split paths, the Perrianath and I; they, to go their way, and I to try my utmost to divert attention from the Ringbearer and his companion. I knew by then why Frodo Baggins was so very important; it was marked in his every footstep that he bore something heavier than I could ever conceive of.

“I knew the stories,” Culdalcár spoke frankly, looking to his kinsman. “I was taught them from infanthood, just as I taught you, Imrahil. The One Ring. Isildur’s Bane. There was only one thing which Frodo could have been carrying, only one thing which could have put such a taint of death and doom and destruction into the eyes of such a tender heart as that of Frodo Baggins. I wanted no part of it, and I knew that I could have no part of it, though I could see in their eyes that they wished for another companion. I was weak in both body and spirit; I could not have withstood the sway of the One Ring for long. So we fled from each other; and I stumbled, and fell, and bled upon the pathway from Mordor, leaving behind as plain a trail as possible.”

The storyteller laughed, the sound not quite as bitter as he had expected. “Even now, it is likely that a path of blood marks my flight of terror. I had no strength for anything but fleeing, and nothing with which to attack any orc had I been capable of doing so. My wounds had broken open, which is likely the only thing which kept me from succumbing to the poison; I bled on every rock and briar which broke my many falls. When I could walk no longer, I crawled; and when my legs could move no longer, I pulled myself; I do not know how long after that point that I lost consciousness. I know only that I roused to the sound of rending earth, and the wounded shrieks of wraiths and their mounts, and knew that it could only mean victory. The Perrianath had succeeded!”

Culdalcár continued his tale, telling of how he had traveled in a fever, barely aware enough to collect berries and roots and drink for himself. He did not know how long it was, but he somehow managed to keep himself alive, travelling slowly out of sheer determination to reach the safety of Gondor. “I could not have travelled far,” Culdalcár admitted, “I was hardly aware of my surroundings enough to determine which direction I faced, much less strong enough to move any great distance. I do not know how I came to be at Minas Tirith, for when last I was aware, I lay dying in the mountains betwixt Mordor and Ithilien.”

Gandalf, who was now puffing on his pipe, spoke up. “The great eagles have been flying over the land for some time now, searching for any band of orcs which may have escaped their destruction in Mordor. It is possible that you were brought to Minas Tirith by one of them.” He regarded Culdalcár thoughtfully. “The Valar have had their hands on you, Culdalcár son of Rofeth. Though you hide it well, the grace which you gave to Frodo is the grace of the High Born: I tell you, Culdalcár of Dol Amroth, you are indeed an elf!”

Imrahil and Faramir stared in shock at the two others. “What means this?” Faramir asked in bewilderment.

Culdalcár looked to his kinsmen. “My father gave me all the blessings of the Numenoreans, just as your father did for you, Imrahil. I _am_ of Numenorean descent, but I also am of elvish descent. Rofeth, my father, adopted me when my birth parents died, having divined that I had some purpose to fulfill in Gondor.” He smiled at their continued confusion. “I have always loved my mother’s people, and have returned to them anew these four times as a kinsman, though few it were who realized that I was but a single man. I have been brother, cousin, and uncle to your fathers, to you, and to your children. You are my kinsman, as surely as the man who adopted me as his own son.

“My father Rofeth taught me of my parents. My mother was indeed a kinsman of yours, Imrahil. She was your ancestor Galador’s cousin – that first Lord of Dol Amroth – born of your many-times-great-grandfather Adrahil, for whom your father was named; she it was who loved an elf, and she it was who died after giving birth to me over nine hundred years ago. My birth-father was an elf who came briefly to view the sea; it is thought that he died in one of the many battles against ring wraiths, for he vanished from my father Rofeth’s knowledge not long after my conception.”

Culdalcár paused, eyes surveying his audience.  Imrahil appeared to be deeply in thought, while Faramir’s face was inscrutable, as was his wont when confused about his own feelings. Gandalf appeared quite calm, seemingly unsurprised by any of the story which he had heard; he only smoked his pipe and looked back at Culdalcár with a gleam in his eyes.

“Do you know the name of the elf whom your mother loved?” the old wizard asked quietly. Imrahil and Faramir both looked up at the question, and watched as Culdalcár nodded.

“His name,” the invalid spoke with equal quiet, “Was Glorfindel.” Gandalf made a small noise of shock, but his eyes gleamed ever brighter.

“Did your father describe this elf?” Culdalcár looked with curiosity at the old man. “I may have known your birth-father, Culdalcár. I have been several times in Gondor and even Dol Amroth over the years; I may be able to tell you for certain what became of him.”

“He was fair,” Culdalcár began slowly, his eyes clouded as he repeated his father’s words from so long before: “Fairer was he than even the men of Rohan. He was very tall, and regal, with long hair that shone like the gold of the sun. The light of the stars shone from his blue eyes, and he shined in the darkness with the power of the Valar themselves, my father told me. He was a great warrior, with a sword of elvish make which sang a thirsty song when it was brought from its sheath.” His eyes were closed in remembrance, recalling the reverence with which Rofeth had spoken of the elf Glorfindel. “He came as an emissary to Gondor, then traveled to Undare-by-the-Sea, some distance south of Dol Amroth, for his heart yearned to view the sea. It was there that he met my mother, and loved her.”

“And he was said to have perished in battle?” Imrahil asked curiously. Faramir on his part, said nothing, watching with sharp gaze as Gandalf smiled softly to himself; the newly-named Steward had heard the name of Glorfindel spoken among the elves, and he suspected that the wizard knew more than he was saying.

“There was a great battle in the plains of Eriador, west of the lake Evendim,” Culdalcár told them. “Many men from Dol Amroth and the surrounding land set sail with Gondor’s armies, and Glorfindel with them, joining many elves of Lindon for the battle. My mother went with them to a hilly place near to the battlefield, she and a few other women who had no children; they would tend to the wounded from there. The battle on that field was long and bloody; the elf Glorfindel faced against the Witch King of Angamar, and it was then by that same elf that the prophecy was spoken regarding the wraith’s death.

“The hilly place where my mother waited was overrun and burnt by the forces of Angmar; she and the other people there fled into the forest. My mother became lost, and it was several days before she made her way back to the battlefield.” Culdalcár breathed in deeply, eyes bright. “The elf Glorfindel had been lost in battle, she was told, and no one could tell her differently, though they sought and could not find his body.” Gandalf harrumphed quietly, eyes twinkling every stronger; Faramir could restrain himself no longer.

“Uncle Culdalcár,” he spoke quietly, “I have heard the elves speak of one among their number whose name is Glorfindel.” Culdalcár’s eyes widened, and he looked to Gandalf.

“Is this a common name among elves?” he mildly questioned. Gandalf puffed quietly on his pipe for several minutes; Imrahil and Faramir could not help but wonder at their complacency.

“It is not a common name,” the wizard finally answered, “And I know of but one Glorfindel who fits the description which your father gave you, my dear Culdalcár; and that one is, indeed, here in Minas Tirith.” Wizard and half-elf lapsed into thoughtful silence; Faramir and Imrahil exchanged bemused looks.

“I should like to meet this elf,” Culdalcár at last admitted. He quickly cut off his cousin’s interjection, “But not in this place! I will heal, and take my place amidst my family for the coronation!” The half-elf gave Imrahil and Faramir a fond smile. “I will not abandon one family for another,” he assured them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Tolkien's history of Arda...so much canon to work with!

**Author's Note:**

> The name of my main character is the combination of the two Quenya words culda (golden-red) and alcar (glory). Obviously, I know nothing about Quenya but what online translators can afford me. However, it comforts me to think that perhaps the poor chap’s mother knew just about as much Quenya as I do. Trust me, it took many tries before I had a name that had approximately the intended meaning and sounded decent.


End file.
